ck had made. He saw that he could do no more at present,
that he must base his hope on the future; this, though he was not blind
to the fact that there might be no future. Suddenly as the storm had
blown up, he knew that he was dealing with desperate men, who from this
day onward would act with their necks in a noose, and whom his word
might send to the scaffold. They had but to denounce him to the rabble
who waited outside, and, besides the Bishop, one only there, as he
believed, would have the influence to save him.

Colonel John had confronted danger many times; to confront it had been
his trade. And it was with coolness and a clear perception of the
position that he turned to Flavia. "I will give up my sword," he said,
"but to my cousin only. This is her house, and I yield myself"--with a
smile and a bow--"her prisoner."

Before they knew what he would be at, he stepped forward and tendered
his hilt to the girl, who took it with flaccid fingers. "I am in your
hands now," he said, fixing his eyes on hers and endeavouring to convey
his meaning to her. For surely, with such a face, she must have, with
all her recklessness, some womanliness, some tenderness of feeling in
her.

"D--n your impudence!" The McMurrough cried.

"A truce, a truce," the Bishop interposed. "We are all agreed that
Colonel Sullivan knows too much to go free. He must be secured," he
continued smoothly, "for his own sake. Will two of these gentlemen see
him to his room, and see also that his servant is placed under guard in
another room?"

"But," the Colonel objected, looking at Flavia, "my cousin will surely
allow me to give----"

"She will be guided by us in this," the Bishop rejoined with asperity.
"Let what I have said be done."

Flavia, very pale, holding the Colonel's sword as if it might sting
her, did not speak. Colonel Sullivan, after a moment's hesitation,
followed one of the O'Beirnes from the room, the other bringing up the
rear.

When the door had closed upon them, Flavia's was not the only pale face
in the room. The scene had brought home to more than one the fact that
here was an end of peace and law, and a beginning of violence and
rebellion. The Rubicon was passed. For good or for ill, they were
committed to an enterprise fraught, it might be, with success and
glory, fraught also, it might be, with obloquy and death. Uncle Ulick
stared at the floor with a lowering face, and sighed, liking neither
the past nor the prospect